Sweat and Ginseng
by Taliax
Summary: Adjusting to the city of walls and secrets isn't easy. Neither is working his first minimum wage job. Some problems include nightmares, cursed aprons, impatient customers, and definitely-not-dancing. Drabble/ficlet series of Zuko's time at Pao's tea shop and the moments in between. Rated T for Zuko's past trauma and the shady folks of the Lower Ring.
1. Loud

**A/N: I'm writing this ficlet/drabble series for mainly 4 reasons:**

**1\. The Aesthetic™ of writing fics with less dialogue (which is something I've wanted to practice**

**2\. A way of projecting some of my feelings for my minimum-wage job onto characters**

**3\. A love letter to the character that is late B2 Zuko**

**4\. Drabble series were like, a Thing in the Kingdom Hearts fandom way back when and I realized I miss writing them**

**Anyway so yeah get ready for a lot of mostly plotless ficlets centering around the tea shop, but for now we have Zuko's first night in Ba Sing Se. These will be more or less chronological and update sporadically in between my bigger fics. I wrote like four and a half today so expect them whenever I get done editing. Also most will be quite a bit shorter than this one.**

**(yes I should be updating my other fics I knowwwwww)**

Loud

Night has never been so _loud._

The crash of the sea against his ship, the song of pistons and steam hissing beneath the floor, were a melody he never thought he'd miss. Layers of metal walls dampened his crew's snores, the remaining echoes becoming white noise, a rising and falling tide. No other sounds could reach him on his personal floating prison—but eventually _prison _was almost _home _and then too soon it was _gone, _flotsam and jetsam scattered by a different too-loud night.

Even the wilderness hadn't been this loud. The chirping rounds of lady-crickets and hooting of owlcats tickled in his good ear, but then the ostrich-horse (not his, never his) would curl up against his back. Her gentle breaths would soothe him until their lungs were in synch, until he could ignore the sounds (and bites) of bugs humming in the cool air, until his eyes gave up staring at the unfamiliar stars.

The ostrich horse is gone. His ship is gone. Uncle is here, Uncle who he never seems to miss until it's too late—but he's here now and Zuko should be glad except his snoring is also _loud._

The room they now share is barely that—a room, with two futons (even flatter than the one in his old cabin), a chipped tea set, a vase of flowers Uncle _had _to buy sitting in the windowsill. The orange petals and green leaves have already begun to wilt in the sliver of moonlight, or maybe they're trying to hide from the noisy street too. Isn't there supposed to be a curfew? If there is, it doesn't stop the stone train from screeching along the track above their building, doesn't stop men from calling drunkenly out to each other below, and it doesn't stop the _pounding footsteps _like people are running across the floor above them.

(Only their apartment is on the highest floor.)

This is only the exterior noise that leaks through the cracked window. The sounds from inside are much worse.

The room beside them, a couple is fighting. He hears those raw shouts, those dull _thuds; _heis old enough now to know what they mean. It makes his eyes screw shut, especially when he hears glass shatter. The silence afterwards is the sparking kind, the beat between lightning and thunder. But no rain drowns out them out when the shouting resumes.

In the opposite room, an infant is crying. Maybe they can't sleep through the nearby argument either. He expects a parent to hush the child eventually, but the comforting words never come, even though he is sure he would hear even whispers through the paper-thin walls. Could anyone possibly be so exhausted, so busy, _(so heartless)_ to ignore the wailing of their own child?

(Someone is, someone always was, but he is not in Ba Sing Se.)

The floor beneath them, a crowd is celebrating. Laughter and strange Earth Kingdom instruments bubble through the ratty carpet. Some kind of clanging, like tiny high-pitched gongs, maybe a flute too. These sounds clash with the others, feeling all the more wrong for daring to rejoice where others suffer. But it is always this way; some are born lucky, others are lucky to be born.

Zuko would feel lucky if they would all just be _quiet._

_There is no war in Ba Sing Se. _A lie dully droned by the stern earthbenders who led their ferry into the city. It feels particularly ironic now, when his apartment feels as loud as any battlefield.

Covering his head with his only pillow, Zuko decides that if there is no war in Ba Sing Se, there certainly isn't peace either.


	2. Apron

Apron

Of course Uncle would find them jobs at a tea shop. If Azula could see him now, she wouldn't even have to kill him—he would die of embarrassment on the spot.

Pao had given him an apron. No, "given" is the wrong word. Gifts can be refused. The floor-length apron is just another shackle in this ginseng-scented prison. A shackle that chafes his neck, and won't stop coming untied around his waist, and seems intent on tripping him every time he moves.

(At least when he trips, the hot leaf juice spills on the thick fabric, rather on his skin.)

(Maybe if he trips enough times, Pao will let him take the stupid thing off.)

But he is Zuko, the (former) crown prince of the Fire Nation, Zuko, the elusive Blue Spirit. He has too much experience to be stumbling and tripping, even over spirits-cursed aprons. It's just that the customers want their tea so _fast _and he is (was) a prince, no one should be yelling at him to hurry up, no one should be _pushing their chair directly in his way—_

(That lady didn't have an apron to protect her from the splattering tea.)

Azula would have smirked and calmly threatened to burn Pao's tea shop to the ground, and then burned the apron in front of him as a demonstration. It's the end of the week before Zuko finds his own, less flashy solution.

If Pao ever notices the clumsy line of stitching hemming the now-shorter apron, he never mentions it.

**A/N: **I forgot to mention in the previous chapter, but I accept (short) prompt requests for this series. I can't promise them immediately because they might be put in an order that makes more sense chronologically, but I thought it might be fun to try C:


	3. Nightmares I: Monster

Nightmares I: Monster

Once he finally learns how to sleep through the noise of this Agni-cursed city, the nightmares begin again.

_Please, Father! I am your loyal son!_

_You will learn respect, and suffering will be your teacher._

His father's image fades. Flames engulf his face, melt his skin, consume his whole world. Father laughs, Azula laughs—_maybe you can find a nice Earth Kingdom family to adopt you—_only he's _in _the Earth Kingdom and he almost-could have had a family but he firebends and they hate him—he was trying to _save _Lee, why won't the flames die, why are they rising out of his control—

Then he _is _the fire scorching through the town, nothing but heat and destruction and everything he touches turns to ash, just like it always does, no wonder they hate him, everything is so so hot he can't breathe _he can't— _

An infant's scream pierces him, and he jolts awake. Where is he—? None of his crew have children, that would be irresponsible on a ship full of—

He's in the apartment. His new (to him, though it looks old enough to predate the Fire Sages) apartment. Uncle snores soundly on the futon to his right. On his left, the single window has fallen shut.

Shoving off his thin blanket, he stands, not-quite-trips over Uncle's newest plant, and heaves the cracked glass up. Sounds of the night assault him—people have no concept of rising with the sun here—but at least he can breathe again.

Just another nightmare. He should be used to them by now. Only his nightmares usually end with the Agni Kai, or with the pirates blowing up his ship, or with that Water Tribe girl (not peasant, he isn't allowed to call them that when he might as well be one) burying him in a pillar of ice.

Never before has he been the monster in his own dream. That scares him more than he wants to admit.


	4. Dishes

**A/N: Thanks for the requests I've gotten so far! I have some of them drafted already and a few that I write later. Requests are still open C:**

**(Also I said no dialogue in these. Well. I lied. Still keeping most of them dialogue-free or using minimal dialogue, but it'll show up from time to time.)**

Dishes

Zuko has never seen Uncle so affronted. Not when Zuko pulled him out of the flower shop (for the third time this week), not even when Zuko called all tea _hot leaf juice _(which it is).

"What do you _mean _you've never washed your teapots!?" Uncle exclaims while holding the interior of a crusty pot up to his eye. "It's no wonder your tea is little more than hot leaf juice!"

"One must never wash his teapot!" The thin rattails of Pao's mustache flutter when he yells. "It would ruin the rich flavor—"

"The rich flavor of what? The mold you've let fester in here?" Uncle places the pot in the sink and shakes his head in disgust-slash-disappointment. Zuko feels his own nose scrunching, though he stands far enough back to avoid the smell.

Pao splutters for a moment. He must never have had an Uncle to scold him in proper teapot care before. But Zuko has, and if he wants to leave work on time, he knows there is only one solution.

He storms over to the sink and begins filling the dingey teapot with water. A bottle of vinegar is more difficult to find, but will make his job infinitely easier. Uncle knows what he is looking for and pulls the tall, clear glass from a low wooden cabinet.

"See, even my nephew knows the importance of a clean teapot." The lines around Uncle's face crinkle when he smiles. Zuko doesn't smile back; he is too busy pouring vinegar, scrubbing, and trying very, very hard not to breathe.

It would be better to let the teapot soak overnight—but there isn't enough room when Uncle piles every teapot in the shop into the sink. Squat ones with intricate floral patterns, tall ones with dragons snaking around the handles, even one pear-shaped pot that he's sure bares Water Tribe glyphs. Why would anyone own such exotic teapots and not wash them properly? How has Pao even stayed in business when gunk coats the bottom of each pot in such a thick layer the vinegar won't cut through it?

(Maybe that's why his last two tea servers quit, why Pao had been desperate enough to hire two men with golden eyes.)

Zuko's rag hardly makes a dent in the foul-smelling buildup. If anything he's just smearing the filth around and it's on his hands, beneath his fingernails—he grimaces at the slimy feeling, but it's hardly the most disgusting thing he's done in the past months. (That title is reserved for cleaning up ostrich-horse dung.) At least he has soap at the apartment, even if he will have to brave the communal bathroom to use it.

More grime sticks to his hands than leaves the teapot. It doesn't make sense, unless the hardened dregs are multiplying, oozing from within the cursed teapot itself—it sounds ridiculous even as he thinks it, but the Spirits hate him enough, anything is possible. It's bad enough that he's working in a tea shop at _all, _much less having to scrub pots like some kind of palace servant. Only the palace teapots would never be this dirty in the first place.

Agni, his life is _worse _than that of his old servants. Maybe if he can't return home as a prince, Father would at least allow him back to serve tea. He could picture it, Father with Azula at his right hand, both of them behind a curtain of flames. Zuko prostrate before them, two cups of tea scalding against his trembling palms, even though his hands, at least, are immune to burns—

The thought makes him scowl and scrub harder. No, returning as he is now would afford him less honor than never returning at all. At least here, no one can see how far he's fallen. And a Lower Ring tea shop (where they don't even wash their own _pots, _maybe they really do need the Fire Nation's help)is the last place on earth Azula would think to look for him.

"How is it going, Nephew?" Uncle stands tiptoe to peer over Zuko's shoulder. In response, his arm falls to rest against the edge of the basin. Bending has never strained his muscles in the same way as this stupid teapot. He is about to tell Uncle that Pao should just throw these pots out; no matter how priceless they once were, no amount of scrubbing can save them.

But to Zuko's surprise, when Uncle gently takes the pot and dumps the murky vinegar-water, the porcelain interior gleams white.

"It's amazing how a little tender loving care can transform something stained into something bright again, isn't it?"

Is that a proverb? Zuko's frustrated scouring wasn't tender, or loving. But the teapot is clean. That's what matters.

...Now he just hopes his arms will be able to handle cleaning ten more.


	5. Payday

Payday

Uncle can't be trusted with the coinpouch.

Zuko learned this lesson years ago, from shopping expeditions for useless trinkets that made the Wani ride an extra three feet deeper in the water. That's why he could never catch up to the Avatar for long, he's sure of it. He should have tossed that monkey statue and every other "souvenir" overboard.

(They're all at the bottom of the ocean now, anyway.)

Zuko learned this lesson when Uncle snuck out to the nearby flower shop—_again—_with the last remnants of their travelling money. At first Zuko had thought the shop was a cover for Uncle's secret old people club, which had given them the money to reach Ba Sing Se in the first place. But after Uncle returned with an ornate vase of desert lilies, Zuko decided it didn't matter how special the flower club was, or how the lilies chased away the musty scent that clung to the corners of their apartment. They couldn't waste their limited resources on something so perishable.

("Ah, but everything is perishable, Nephew. Including your worries." "We need _food, _Uncle, not flowers and proverbs!")

Zuko has learned this lesson, and so relief floods him when Pao places the coins of his first week's wages directly into his hands.

He blinks down at the assorted coppers: some are square, some are round, some are punched with geometric holes, some are solid all the way through.

None of them are worth enough to pay his rent.

_That's it? _He wants to snap, but Pao is already shooting him a gap-toothed smile, ruffling his hair, shooing him back to work.

The change drops into Zuko's pocket. Its loud jingle and tangible weight mock him; much like Uncle's old trinkets, they may look flashy, but they are devoid of any real worth. Zuko has sweat, scrubbed, and served seven hours every day for—for _nothing._

He's already tallied their expenses—one familiar activity he can carry over from his ship, one part of his life that he can still control—and he knows that even if Uncle's wages double their income, even if they have four more pay periods before their rent is due, they will barely scrape by. His dreams of saving money to purchase a new ship and finish his quest evaporate like the steam wafting from the tea he pours.

This can't be the rest of his life. It _can't. _He'll work harder, fight as hard as it takes, until—

_Until what? _The clinking of coins in his pocket blends with his strangled laugh. All his struggling has landed him _here, _slaving at a dead-end job in a dead-end city, with no crew, no resources, no money. No honor. Nothing but the sweat cloying his face, the apron choking his neck… and Uncle, sticking by his side.

If Zuko can just keep Uncle's hands off the coinpouch, he can find them a way out of this prison. He _has _to. Giving up has never been an option, not when he can still fight.

(Even if this fight is one he has no idea how to win.)

**A/N: Going to try to update this at least weekly. Still have a backlog of drabbles, but they're not all edited or put in chronological order yet. Still keeping those requests in mind too!**


	6. Jet

Jet

Jet is staring at him again. The boy thinks he's so clever, but the apartment light is kept dim, and there are enough lanterns on the street to illuminate the so-called _"freedom fighter" _perched on a clothesline between their building and the adjacent one.

(How is he even balancing like that? Ty Lee is the only other person Zuko knows who could pull that off. And the Avatar, probably. Zuko's practiced before, but thin ropes are different from narrow rooftops; he's simply too heavy to keep upright. But Jet looks about his size, so maybe it's not as impossible as he thought.)

(Stop it, he's _not _going to take notes from the idiot's balancing skills.)

Their window doesn't have curtains. If it did, Zuko would stare at the pest while throwing them shut. Maybe that would be an investment worth the few coppers left over after rent. Even when Zuko rolls over on his futon he can _feel _that brown-eyed stare raising the hairs on his neck.

Uncle thinks Zuko is being paranoid, but even he uses spark rocks to brew his tea. Even when they go missing. Again. And again. They can't _afford _this, there's only so many times they can borrow spark rocks from Pao's shop, and Agni knows they don't have money to spare.

Maybe Zuko should skip the curtains and board up the window altogether. Only then the room would boil them alive, because even firebenders can't stand the suffocating heat without ventilation, especially when Zuko wakes up in the middle of the night, his lungs filled with phantom smoke that's _not real _and he _knows _that but it doesn't make it any easier to breathe—

And when he shoves his head out the window and sucks in the cooler air, Jet is still perched there. Staring.

"Leave me _alone!" _Zuko snarls, and hurls the nearest reachable object across the gulf at him.

The nearest object, which just happens to be one of their last two spark rocks.

Zuko smacks his head against the windowsill and groans, but not loudly enough to drown out Jet's laugh.


	7. Rhythm

**A/N: For pen n' notebook's request: "if you are interested you could write about the events of a single day in the tea shop." Thanks for the request!**

**EDIT: thanks to waiterdracon12 for catching my fail, it's supposed to be white dragon tea, not white jade xD Iroh is NOT trying to poison all the customers, lol**

Rhythm

There's a rhythm to the evening tea shop rush. Patrons enter, he guides them to a table before they can sit _no not there, he hasn't cleaned that one yet. _He scribbles down orders in characters that hopefully pass for Earth Kingdom from a distance, because Fire Script is all he can think in when put on the spot. Sometimes an indecisive customer, usually a new face but sometimes a regular (_Ling Hua, he's talking about you) _will deliberate over the short menu as if their destiny depends on whether they choose Jasmine or Oolong. When this happens, he can at least try to practice his Earth characters and curse the fact that he neglected that particular study in his years at sea.

He passes the orders to Uncle through the cutout in the wall—because apparently even his presence in the kitchen will somehow spoil the brewing tea—and accepts a tray of steaming cups in return. Channeling the fluid movements of the Blue Spirit, he flows through the tables, trying to recall the color-coded cup system (white dragon is served in blue floral-print cups, why isn't it in _white) _as he delivers order after order. The hot porcelain doesn't burn his fingers. He hopes that none of the customers notice that, either.

Then he's exchanging Earth Kingdom coins (_count the change correctly, he can't afford to screw up, there's three hot orders Uncle's waiting on him to serve), _and the cycle starts again. Take orders, deliver tea, swap money, repeat. Maybe wipe down a table or two in between, if he's lucky, because if not incoming customers will sit there and sneer at the mess and _he didn't tell them to sit there, it was their own fault—_

There's a rhythm to the evening tea shop rush, but he's never been skilled at following a beat.


	8. Shower

Shower

If Zuko closes his eyes—and his ears, and his _nose_—he can almost pretend he's standing on the cold metal floor of his ship instead of the slimy tile of the communal apartment shower. But even the feel of the water dripping over him has changed. The liquid shivers ice cold down his back, overcompensating for the stifling heat that permeates the complex. The shower pressure feels like a trickle compared to the powerful flow he was once used to. Still, it's better than a murky stream in the woods.

(Though at least in the woods, he didn't have to worry about neighbors with unsecured towels flashing him without warning. Is there some kind of tea that can wipe memories?)

While he's at least grateful to have (mostly) clean water again, the familiar hygiene routine brings with it other old habits, ones he thought left behind with his departing crew. He's scrubbing his hands through his too-short hair when a nostalgic melody hums in the back of his throat.

_Nostalgic. _Is that what he's calling music night now? He's recognizes the unbidden tune as Four Seasons; he hasn't heard that song in ages.

(Hasn't sung it since the last time he had the ship's washroom all to himself.)

But this washroom is never empty; there's always someone bathing behind one of the flimsy curtains, or brushing paste over their teeth in front of the grime-specked mirror, or leaving awful smells in the toilet stalls. He's wary of letting any foreign songs escape him here, where anyone could be listening.

...Even though the sounds of running water and vulgar bathroom conversations would probably drown it out. Those particular, ah, descriptions of women would have made even the men in his crew blush.

(Seriously, he _needs _a memory-wiping tea. Maybe a spirit could curse him with amnesia; he'd accept that too.)

The desire to tune out the men's conversation eventually wins over his potential embarrassment.

"_Winter spring, summer and fall; winter spring, summer and fall…"_

The quiet melody blends with the falling water, with his measured breathing, soothing him until the men either shut up or leave. He dries and throws his clothes back on; the olive-toned garments haven't gotten splashed as badly this time. He steams them partially dry—not enough for the steam to rise past the bar holding up the curtain. Finally he throws his towel over his shoulder, steps out, and—

Stares into the startled green eyes of a boy slightly younger than him. The boy holds a wad of clothes and has a towel around his neck, so maybe he was actually waiting for the shower, and not just spying on him. Not everyone can be like Jet. Right?

"Nice voice. Trying out for the theater?" The boy trades the startled look out for a gap-toothed grin. Maybe he's not as much of a threat as Jet, but his words are equally annoying. Zuko's face shouldn't feel this hot after stepping out of an icy shower.

"You trying out for being a creep?" He snaps back. The shoulder-check he gives the boy isn't intentional, though, it's his fault for standing so close.

"It was just a joke..." the boy mutters before disappearing behind the once-white curtain.

If anything's a joke, Zuko thinks, it's the things people feel entitled to say in a communal washroom. But it's a small price to pay to have the sweat rinsed from his skin.

(Even if he still wishes for tea, a spirit, or blunt force trauma to erase some memories.)

**A/N: The headcanon that Zuko likes to sing in the shower was somewhat inspired by Mufflinlance's fic, Cheating at Pai Sho, which is a wonderful fic that deserves a read if you haven't already!**


	9. Stories

Stories

People stare. His left eye may be pulled into a permanent squint, its vision blurred from the unforgettable heat, but he doesn't have to see the stares to feel them itching against his warped skin. Social decorum is just another luxury he gave up in his banishment, and he doesn't expect to find it in the Lower Ring any more than he has in his Avatar-hunting travels across the world.

Still, he is unused to meeting so many new people every day. As word of Uncle's lovingly-brewed tea spreads, everyone from grimy teenagers to weathered elders come to get a taste of their hot leaf juice—and a look at Zuko's face.

He tries not to flinch away from curious green eyes, from the looks of shock and sometimes queasiness (_just don't throw up here, he just mopped the floor). _But as he holds his ground against each new face, he begins to realize the curled lips of disgust and wide eyes of shock are less common reactions. Most of the patrons' eyes barely skim over him now. He is just another part of the background, only acknowledged when he is needed to take an order or refill a cup.

Slowly, he begins to understand why. His scar may be in a more prominent place, but he is not the only one marked by flames. There are too many others—

A regular with ancient burns covering both forearms, as if he tried to block a blast with nothing more than his skin. His name is Gan Seng. (Too close to Gansu; did he ever find his firstborn son?) He orders Jasmine and stops Zuko before he can fill his cup over halfway. Gan's hands still tremble as he lifts the porcelain to his lips.

A younger woman whose shoulder shines where her dress has been cut away, baring the fresh scar as a sign of honor. The pine green of her eyes could almost be confused for black, but the fierceness there is all Fire Nation. His golden irises offend her more than his scar. He refuses to be ashamed; the warm color is the only fragment of his identity that hasn't been cut away, smothered with an apron and the name _Lee._

A child who leans against his older sister, the red welts around his ankles the only part of the wound that shows. His quiet whimpers betray the pain his clothes obscure. Zuko thinks of Song, who would have known how to ease the lingering heat, who would have offered understanding and sympathy. Zuko can only offer a coupon for more tea.

He doesn't know these people's stories. They don't know his. They can stare and wonder and assume, but neither party will ask. He knows better than to pry, even if he cared.

(And he doesn't care, it's not his business, even if it's _his_ country handing out scars like souvenirs.)

If they wanted to peel back his layers of damaged tissue in return, he doesn't give them the chance. He speaks just enough to perform his job, then fades into the background. He pretends his invisibility is because of his natural stealth, but more likely, it's simply that no one cares that much. He is Lee, a tea server in the Lower Ring. His story doesn't matter. His face doesn't matter.

Like most drinks in the tea shop, the thought leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

**A/N: I got a request for the prompt "sweet," just wanted to let you it's in progress but will probably be posted two drabbles from now. C: Also thanks as always for all of the reviews/comments! I may not respond to them all because I can't always think of something to say, but I appreciate every one!**


	10. Spicy

Spicy

Whatever the dry northwestern Earth Kingdom climate is good for, it clearly isn't growing spices. Or maybe that's just because the run-down stands of the Lower Ring can't afford the flavorful herbs that graced the palace kitchens. Of course, he doesn't expect them to—he's dealt without the food of his home for the past three years, what's a few days _(weeks, months, definitely not more than that)_ longer?

Still, disappointment settles on him like a familiar cloak when he breathes in the bland aroma of Phu's noodles. The best affordable restaurant in the lower ring, an older couple had raved in the tea shop. Maybe _affordability _is the reason the soup smells like a watered-down version of the ramen he was expecting. The egg cracked on top and bay leaves scattered throughout the broth may add some flavor, but certainly not enough to account for the spice warning the menu had boasted.

Spice or not, though, it's food. Food he can afford with some degree of honor, food that doesn't require begging or stealing. It's easy to take that for granted again, even just a few weeks after being homeless.

(No, he's _still _homeless, the apartment isn't a home, no matter how many lilies and sunflowers and irises Uncle brings ho—brings _there.)_

"Are you going to eat that, Nephew?" Uncle splatters a few drops of broth on the table when he points his chopsticks towards Zuko's bowl. Uncle's own is already half empty, though Zuko swears he's only been staring into the soup for less than a minute.

He _is _going to eat it—he didn't waste five square-coppers just to let the noodles disappear into Uncle's canyon-stomach. He just wishes the tables had a shaker of fire flakes, or even regular ground pepper. All that he finds are two cloth napkins and a container of salt. He can eat the soup bland, it's certainly not the worst injustice he's suffered, but he saved up for this outing and he was really looking forward to _something _spicy—

So even though awkwardness ties his tongue, he flags down the waiter. His olive apron looks a little tighter than Zuko's uniform, its hem a little longer. It's a miracle he doesn't trip and scatter the bowls of rice and noodles balanced in his arms.

No, they don't have any fire flakes—but they do have a chili paste. Zuko feels the first genuine smile in days twist his lips.

The waiter gasps in horror as Zuko dumps heaping spoonfuls of that chili paste into the broth, swirling his noodles around with his chopsticks. He might as well have firebent in front of him from the way his eyes bulge. Why does he look so offended? Is eating bland noodles a sacred Earth Kingdom tradition?

Finally the steam wafts an acceptable amount of spice towards Zuko's nose, and he swears he can feel his inner fire flicker in response. He no longer cares that the waiter is staring, because for the first time in months, _his food actually has flavor. _It doesn't matter that the noodles still have a foreign flavor that isn't meant to mix with such a hot condiment. It's _something. _Right now, that's enough.

When his throat and lips burn at the end of the meal, he offers to pay the tip.

**A/N: I thought Zuko deserved a break for once :P**

**Thanks again for all of the reviews! You guys are too sweet C: (And speaking of Sweet, that will be the next prompt)**


	11. Sweet

**A/N: KnightOwl247 on AO3 requested the prompt "Sweet." Had a few different ideas for this one, but this was what ended up happening C:**

Sweet

"Aww, who knew you'd have such a sweet smile?"

Zuko's scowl slams firmly back into place. It isn't _his _fault that the woman didn't read the sign and brought her pet cat into the teashop. It isn't his fault that Pao would have an allergic reaction if the fluffy pet shed all over the floor. It isn't his fault that he'd just tried to _do his job_ and take the adorable-and-soft-but-still-not-allowed cat outside—

And it definitely wasn't his fault that the animal had nuzzled into the crook of his arm and rumbled with a loud purr.

He'd never been allowed a pet, for reasons Mom had never quite explained (but probably boiled down to _Azula can't be trusted around small animals_). The closest he'd come were the garden's turtleducks (which had also liked his natural body warmth; maybe the cat's nuzzling _is _his fault), and maybe the ostrich-horse (no, he still isn't allowed to claim her either). Regardless, the grey cat's sleepy blue eyes and contented rumble just caught him off guard, that's all. It's no reason to smile when he still has to throw her outside.

...Which would be a lot easier if the cat wasn't kneading his apron. Her claws hook into the thick fabric, and he doesn't relish the thought of trying to detangle them. But he can't do his job with a cat cradled to his chest, either...

If Uncle serves the tea while Zuko lets the cat cuddle him outside—well, he's still just trying to do his job. The customer would be upset if her cat ran away while she tried to enjoy a soothing cup of tea. It has nothing to do with the fact that the grey creature actually enjoys his presence.

Zuko scratches the purring cat behind her ears, and this time, no one is around to see him smile.

**A/N: Two chapters back to back where Zuko is happy? Don't worry next update should be back to your regularly scheduled angst **

**Updates might be a bit slower than usual since *drum roll* I got a new job! No more projecting all of my minimum wage service job problems onto Zuko, haha. I work longer hours though, so a bit less writing time. I'm still having a lot of fun with this story though so I'm betting I'll still update at least weekly.**

**I'm also attempting Inktober again this year, which is the other reason updates might be slower. Some of it will be avatar related, and you can find all of them on my art tumblr, taliaxlatiart if you're interested!**

**Thanks for all the comments lately as well! I don't always reply to all of them (because I'm awkward and don't know what to say haha) but I appreciate every one!**


	12. When

When

Exhaustion fuzzes the corners of his mind as he collapses onto the ratty mattress. It's too thin to fully cushion his fall; he's probably bruised his hip and shoulder, but he can't bring himself to care. He grunts in response to Uncle's yawned goodnight.

When will it end?

It's a vague question with even vaguer answers. His time at Pao's tea shop could end when they find better-paying (and less humiliating) jobs, but the thought is as unappealing as it is unlikely. Scrambling from one waste of time to another will bring him no closer to going home.

When will it end?

His banishment can only end when he captures the Avatar. He may be wanted for treason—which is a _lie_, he hasn't betrayed anyone, _I am your loyal son—_but even Father will have to honor him for bringing home the biggest threat against the Fire Nation. Even if that threat is a child who once stuffed frogs down his tunic and seems more concerned with making friends than mastering elements.

(That doesn't change anything. Zuko will still capture him… once he figures out how. Maybe the Avatar could be baited with the earthy-sweet scent of Uncle's tea. The boy has done more reckless things than accept drinks from enemies.)

When will it end?

The war can only end when Father conquers the rest of the world. Though Uncle has his doubts, Zuko feels it's inevitable. The Avatar is only one child; even with the terrifying power he wielded at the North Pole, he can't singlehandedly stop an entire nation. And who would help him? The Earth Kingdom's scattered city-states might come to his call, but their "warriors" are bullies and terrified children.

(Untrained recruits sent to the front, and he can't save them either. They aren't even his to save.)

They won't, they _can't _survive, even with the might of Ba Sing Se behind them. Walls can hardly be used as weapons, and even the strongest defenses can only last so long.

(One day it will fall, and he hopes that when it does, Father will not find him pouring tea.)

The Water Tribes are just as helpless as the Earth Kingdom. The Northern Tribe would rather cower at the top of the world, with no resources the Fire Nation wants anyway. The Southern Tribe is practically a shadow of a civilization, able to be shaken by an accidental ram from his ship and some blustering intimidation tactics. Once they all stop fighting the Fire Nation's power, maybe they can begin to rebuild in peace.

(But Zuko has stopped fighting before, and all he received for it was a scar.)

When will it end?

Today is already over. But tomorrow will be the same routine. He'll wake with the dawn, stumble to the washroom to scrub a brush over his teeth, refuse Uncle's morning tea (why does he make tea _now, _doesn't he get enough of the smell at work?) in favor of cold rice (because the window still lacks curtains, and who knows who might be watching). They'll trek the blocks and blocks to the tea shop, Uncle greeting the fellow refugees they pass—sometimes catching surprised smiles, sometimes irritated scowls. Sweat will have beaded under Zuko's collar by the time they arrive, just to multiply under the steam of freshly boiled water. The shop sign will flip from closed to open. He'll slip into the haze that now accompanies each shift, a haze that protects him from becoming Zuko the prince and keeps him safely as Lee the nobody. He'll serve and sweep and _smile _because he needs the tip money and the sun will set through the windows and he'll mop the floors again and it will be over. But it won't end.

When will it end?

He rolls over and tries to block out the cries of their neighbors' child. The raucous laughs below. The stomping of feet above. The snores across the room.

_When will it end?_


	13. Nightmares II: Eyes

**A/N: Probably shoved too much into this one. Flow isn't as good as usual. But I edited it like 4 times so it's as good as it's gonna get lol. Could be considered a direct follow up to the previous chapter, but doesn't have to be.**

**Oh! Also, feel free to rec me some other Ba Sing Se-era Zuko fics in the reviews/comments if you know of any! **

Nightmares II: Eyes

Eyes hover in the darkness, scattered against the inky backdrop like a hundred multicolored stars. But stars don't blink, don't flash with hate, don't shake in fear. Don't stare deep deep into his soul, as if they're crawling through his pupils, taking root in his mind, stripping him bare, past his skin, past his scar, searching for the monster hidden beneath his peasant's clothes—

_Not a monster, I'm not, stop _staring _I'm not going to hurt you— _

They're going to hurt _him _with those emerald and umber irises that don't see beyond the heat in his hands—_don't catch flame, that's what they're waiting for—_

Heedless to his silent plea, his feet begin to singe the clothesline he balances on, like a thread, a wire, a sliver holding him over a deeper pool of eyes. Two harsh steel irises melt out of the darkness, their owner's weight barely disturbing the delicate wire. Jet's skeletal frame is twisted, his hair standing up like he's been electrocuted. Maybe he has. Zuko's fingertips are hot, but he's never bent lightning, it couldn't have been him, it _couldn't— _

Jet's twin hooks cut the fraying line, and he goes swinging down towards the pool of eyes.

"_Do you think we could have been friends?" _A softer gray pair of irises asks, and he wonders if he'd said yes if he would be here now, tumbling through the eyes that pelt his back like reverse hail. Shouts and whispers bite into him as he plummets through the mob—

"_You're not a prince, you're an outcast! His own father burned and disowned him!"_

"_What a shame, the poor boy would be almost handsome, if it weren't for…"_

"_No! I hate you!"_

"_You're an outcast, like me."_

Not like Jet, not like _anyone. _He isn't welcome in his Father's world or theirs.

Two by two the eyes wink out above him, but now it's only a reminder that he is hopelessly, desperately alone. Alone and still falling, falling, the wind cutting at his face, his arms, his legs, no matter how tightly he curls into himself—

_Thump thud-thud_

His heart pounds so hard he can hear it, too loud in the silence of his ringing ears that sounds all too much like echoes of harsher whispers, gossipping crew members, bigoted Earth citizens—

_Thud-thud, thump-thud-thud-thud_

Uneven, maybe his heart is giving out, he has no fire to spark it back to life, no fire to see the end of this abyss and he's never been afraid of heights; he misses sneaking up high so it's a cruel punishment that his dream would twist one of his few joys to torment him—

_Dream?_

Flame finally ignites in his hands, just in time to see the last pair of eyes he wanted. The only pair he'd missed. The one he'd longed to look at him with pride rather than shame, with anything but the hateful golden glare that pins him in midair.

"_You will learn respect, and suffering will be your teacher."_

Please, not this, he can handle any eyes tearing him to shreds but these; he's learned at the hands of suffering for so long—

_Thud-stomp-THUD_

He finally jolts awake at the sound that shakes dust from the thin ceiling. Those footsteps again.

It's adrenaline and panic and pride that push him to storm out of the apartment, into the hall, where a broken broom handle provides a way to shove the loose trapdoor up on creaking hinges. Bracing his hands and feet against the narrow walls, he monkeyspider-climbs through the hole and hauls himself onto the roof.

He isn't afraid of heights. He is the Blue Spirit, and four stories are nothing compared to the sloping tiers of the palace, when his limbs were shorter but he also felt invincible, no blinding heat in his face to prove otherwise.

He isn't afraid of heights, and he won't be afraid of the eyes that stop running to stare at him from beneath wide-brimmed green helmets. Nevermind the fact that the circles embroidered on their chests look like wide stares in the pale moonlight.

"This is no place for you, boy. Go back before you fall."

There's something in that deep, smooth voice that feels too familiar. The steady cadence of power, of one who can stand at the edge without fear of being pushed over. Like his father and Azula. Like Zuko used to be.

The circles on their chests stare into him, almost hypnotizingly. Whoever these men are, a normal refugee would not challenge them. He doesn't need to draw more attention than he already has.

The adrenaline and fire still trapped inside him don't care.

"Get off my roof. I'm trying to sleep." His glare can pierce as sharply as any; years of practice have guaranteed that. But the man in front doesn't flinch.

"Very well then."

He thinks he catches a smirk before a glove of earth slams out from the man's sleeve, knocking him in the shins before clamping him down to the roof. The air whooshes out of his lungs. To his credit, at least, he doesn't cry out. He won't give these bullies the satisfaction.

_Thump-thump-thud, _the footsteps leap from the roof, leaving him pinned by his legs. He could break free without too much trouble. The roof tiles are easy enough to crack, even if the stone binding is not. But the adrenaline has leaked out of his veins, through the ceiling, is probably dripping into his room below.

Reality catches up with him in slow motion. He isn't a prince, not here, not now. He can't give out orders, even when he's tired and wants to _sleep _without nightmares and footsteps shocking him into consciousness. And now he's too tired to even think about crawling back into his cage.

He lies back and sighs, thinking at least that the breeze out here is less stifling—

But then he gazes up at the black sky. All he sees are stars scattered above, like staring, piercing eyes.

He closes his own, but isn't naive enough to expect to sleep.


	14. Meditation

**A/N: Fun fact: I forgot to mention in the last chapter, but the climbing on the roof thing was based off my old apartment building, and is something I actually did there.**

**This is a direct continuation of the last prompt. Probably won't be doing a ton of chapters like this, but there was a request for more Uncle and this was a very obvious place to put it.**

**Also thanks to FireladyAiko, whose sweet comment reminded me that I needed to finish this chapter haha**

Meditation

At some point in the night, sleep must have finally taken him, because he jolts awake to the shudder of the roof beneath his back. It's only after trying to spring to his feet that he remembers he never broke the shackle pinning his calf to the clay tiles. The stone digs sharply into his shin, drawing out a hiss. If those suspicious earthbenders are back—if they've come to finish that they started—he needs to move, _fast—_

"Ah, I see you've finally found a place to meditate. Well done, Nephew!"

Zuko sits up and cranes his neck around to where Uncle is crawling out of the trapdoor. How—?

"How did you get up here?" He gapes. Yes, Uncle is the Dragon of the West, and yes, he's the best firebender Zuko knows, but… well, it didn't look like the opening was big enough to accommodate Uncle's protruding stomach.

"I wouldn't miss morning meditation with my favorite Nephew for anything." He winks, dodging the question entirely.

As if he could meditate with fire up here even if he _wasn't _shackled to the roof. The light would be a glaring beacon against the still-dark sky. He'd be less obvious showing up to work in his full prince regalia.

But Zuko just sighs, knowing he won't get a real answer out of him. A better question might have been _how did you know I was up here? _But he doubts Uncle will answer that, either.

He bends at the waist to begin tugging at the stone shackle. Before he can shatter it himself (using controlled heat in his hands, if he needs to; technically that isn't _fire, _and it's dark enough that no one will see)Uncle shuffles towards him and peers at it thoughtfully.

"Hmm. Interesting." Then with gentle hands, he pries the clay tile and attached stone cuff from the roof. Curls his fingers into the shallow space between the shackle and Zuko's shin, and cracks the offending rock clean in half.

Zuko blinks. At the rock. At his Uncle, who is either secretly an earthbender, or who has taken on the strength his Dragon title implies. _How—?_

"Very brittle rock. Shale, I believe. The key is to work with with the striations rather than against them." He taps at the broken stone, and bits of gray earth flake off. "Fight smarter, not harder."

For once, his saying is clear advice, rather than a convoluted proverb. It's that fact that betrays Uncle's worry.

"I'll… keep that in mind," Zuko mumbles. Fighting harder has been his strategy since the day he was banished—no, since the day Azula began to surpass him in firebending. Maybe even longer than that. He's always fought so, so hard.

He wishes he had something to show for it besides the stiff tissue marring the left side of his face.

"Sometimes it's alright to not fight at all." Uncle stares at the last winking stars, but his tone is more personal than any of his lofty proverbs. What is he saying? That Zuko should… should _give up? _

He can't. He'd sooner be able to forget his own name.

(Besides, it's not like he has anything left to lose.)

He pretends he didn't hear that soft sentence—that sentence that alone makes him more of a traitor than fleeing Azula or hiding in the last bastion against the Fire Nation.

Uncle doesn't seem to expect an answer, anyway. He turns his face to the pink light that begins smoothing the staring stars from the sky. With the sliver of sun cresting the city's far wall, Zuko can breathe again.

In unspoken agreement, he and Uncle cross their legs in lotus position. Meditation doesn't involve explaining the embarrassing truth of how he ended up on the roof all night. Meditation doesn't involve moving his still-tired body down to the apartment, where the air is stuffy and stale no matter how many plants Uncle buys to brighten the room. Meditation doesn't involve thinking about the earthbenders that trapped him here, but used a shackle he could've easily broken if he'd just been _smarter. _Like he wasn't even a real threat, just some punk kid they wanted to teach a lesson—

"Your breathing, Prince Zuko."

Every muscle tightens at the use of his real name. His eyes dart around for onlookers—Jet, the mysterious earthbenders, anyone—but the rooftops are deserted this morning. Uncle's soothing voice is low enough not to carry anyway, but still. He knows to be more careful.

And yet at the same time, it feels good to hear his name. To remember who he is.

He steadies his breathing, synchronizing it with Uncle's rather than with the steady flicker of a flame. It's more difficult than ever. His chi feels sluggish, clogged up from weeks without bending. His mind refuses to stop replaying last night's nightmares, casting ghostly eyes against the dark of his eyelids.

"It's alright, Zuko," Uncle says so quietly he may have imagined it.

Zuko resets his breath. Tries again.

(Feels piercing emerald, steel gray, and burning amber staring back at him.)

Loses his rhythm to a gasp, even though he knows those vivid memories aren't real.

Tries _harder. _It's just breathing, _everyone _breathes, there's no reason why he can't just do this one—simple—thing—_right— _

The creaking roof tiles are the only warning before Zuko finds two strong arms tightening around his shoulders. Panic crackles through him, threatening to spark fire from his fingertips, murky chi or not—

"Zuko," Uncle's voice comes from somewhere near his shoulder. He's—he's hugging him. He's not being strangled. His body is just being stupid, overreacting, refusing to let his breathing stabilize. And every time he blinks, those _eyes— _

(It's been three years, will Father's eyes even look the same?)

"Please, Nephew. If you want to talk about it, I am here for you."

He shakes his head quickly. He's been such a burden already; his Uncle doesn't need to listen to his pathetic nightmares.

(Besides, how can he explain that one of the things that terrifies him is what he's sacrificed everything to achieve?)

"I'm—I'm fine, Uncle," his voice is strained, raw with tears he hasn't cried. (Won't cry, not in front of Uncle, or _anyone_; he's shown enough weakness already.)

"Of course you are."

The words should sound patronizing, but coming from Uncle, they feel more like a reassurance. He's fine. He's okay.

...Though maybe it's okay if he lets Uncle hold him a little longer. Just to make sure Uncle's okay, too.

It's not a traditional method of meditation, but by the time the sun has fully risen, the cadence of Zuko's breathing finally matches Uncle's.


	15. Help

**A/N: sorcerousfang on FFN requested the prompt "Help." I was already in the process of writing this one, but thanks to the prompt I'm posting it a little earlier, haha.**

Help

"I can help."

It's three simple words, but they shock him into jerking up and smacking his head against the underside of the table.

"Sorry…" He can hear the wince in the girl's voice, and it helps him bite back a too-obviously Fire Nation curse.

"It's fine," he grumbles, because it's not _her _fault the little kid chucked a teacup across the room, leaving him to sweep up the ceramic shards with a fraying rag. A rag that isn't nearly enough protection from the fragments that seem attracted to his hands. (Hopefully there's some salve and bandages in the kitchen; he'd look pathetic bleeding all over the shiny teacups.)

He'd thought the girl would take his irritated tone as a cue to leave. Instead she kneels beside him, one of her twin braids swinging against his face. Does no one here have a sense of personal space? If she was really sorry, she'd leave him to do his job in peace. He doesn't _need _help, even if the bell above the door is ringing, and _someone _(him) will have to be up front to direct customers to a table—

"I can take care of this. Don't worry." She flashes him a smile, as if it really is her pleasure to be cleaning up sharp debris on the sticky teashop floor. She doesn't have an apron; her kimono will be filthy by the time she's done, but it doesn't stop her from working the bloody rag out from under Zuko's fingers. "It must be hard being the only server here."

He doesn't get the chance to reply, since the large group that just entered is already restlessly waiting on him. He wipes his palms against his apron, hoping he can pass the stain off as a dark blend of tea, and goes back to work.

Three rushes later, he finds the rag free of shards and neatly folded on the ledge between the restaurant proper and the kitchen. That would be surprising enough—but the grey cloth betrays no hint of the red stains he'd left on it.

There's no trace of the girl, either. Not that he _has _to thank her, but…

He shakes his head. There are other, less helpful customers to worry about.

**A/N: One guess who the girl is ;)**


	16. Smile

**A/N: This one might have fit in better before chapter 12, but I forgot I'd had this one partially written then and I still like it, so here we are**

Smile

Azula always lies. She must have taken all the family talent for it, because Zuko still feels his skin itch every time he introduces himself as "Lee, I'll be your server this evening," the script Pao practically drilled into him after his initial disastrous attempts at customer service.

(Apparently asking _"what do you want?"_ isn't enough, even if it's simple and to the point.)

He isn't Lee, he doesn't want to be a tea server this or any other evening, and—no, Pao, he is _not _going to _smile _while doing it. He might be able to lie with his words, but not with his face. The stiff scar tissue makes smiling uncomfortable, even if he'd felt inclined to. Which he doesn't, because he would rather be _anywhere else _than serving tea at this hovel.

(Maybe he isn't so bad at lying. There are worse places he could be—frozen beneath the North Pole, imprisoned in a rural Earth Kingdom town, anywhere within reach of Azula. But he still doesn't get paid enough to smile.)

At least that's what he tells himself, until he returns from the kitchen with his lips twitching with the lingering trace of Uncle's latest tea joke, and three coppers are left behind on Gan's table.

Not all smiles come so easily, but the tips he receives are near proportional to the width of his (forced) grin. Not exactly proportional, too far and he looks like one of those guides from the Upper Ring he's seen on a few rare occasions. (Is Joo Dee a job title, or just a common name in Ba Sing Se?)

He remembers Uncle performing for money on the side of the road, singing and dancing and making a fool of himself. This feels too similar, like plastering on a theater mask over his comfortable scowl.

(It would be easier if it were a _real _mask. A mask wouldn't crack at the first complaining customer.)

But he can't afford to be proud. Literally—he's run the numbers, and with their current spending, they _need _the tip money. If Uncle were the server, this wouldn't be a problem. His jokes and (Zuko shudders) flirting compliments would have customers pouring coins at his feet. But Zuko's tea is_ "too bracing," _which means Uncle is confined to the kitchen, and Zuko is confined to serving customers and looking pleasant.

Somehow, he earns enough spare coppers to fund their grocery expenses _and _Uncle's flower addiction.

(Frankly, he still thinks he'd be better at the tea.)

**A/N: You will be learning more about Uncle's flower shop visits eventually. He has better reasons that Zuko realizes.**


	17. Taxes

**A/N: Little bit late with this week's update, and it's pretty short. I forgot I'd written it in my bio notebook lol. Anyway I might do two updates this week to make up for it since I'm actually starting to build up a backlog again. I'll have to watch City of Walls and Secrets again before I can write the chapter I'm really looking forward to. Anyway, thanks again for all the reviews! Love you guys!**

Taxes

"The only certainties in life are death and Koh-danged _taxes_."

It isn't one of Uncle's proverbs—Uncle is more optimistic than that—but Zuko overheard the saying from one of the teashop regulars. The man had muttered it while squinting at a fine-print scroll and dumping an amber flask into his cup of oolong.

After sitting crosslegged on the apartment floor with a tax scroll of his own, Zuko is inclined to agree. He already struggles with writing the complex Earth Kingdom characters, but the simplified versions on the form are no better. No palace tutor would've taught Earth Kingdom peasants' script. Even Uncle can hardly decipher it.

(However, Uncle at least thinks to flip the scroll over.)

The bottom of the opposite side has translations in lower Fire script and even the glyphs of the Northern Water Tribe. Ba Sing Se is nothing if not thorough in its paperwork.

Zuko darts a glance towards the window. No bush-haired, grass-chewing idiot lurks outside… for now. But if Jet somehow sees him fill out his taxes in Fire script—or just steals the completed form out of the mail—his obnoxious accusations will only intensify. The fact that Zuko could as easily be a nonbender from the colonies will never occur to him.

And if anyone were to believe Jet, _death _and _taxes _might become too closely entwined.

Safety above all else. He's made enough mistakes already, running into those earthbending warriors—the Dai Li. (Last night a chatty man cursed their name over his green tea, before paling and leaving a tip disproportionately large for his one cup.)

Zuko will never capture the Avatar if he ends up in some Ba Sing Se prison (at best). He'll be more careful—he'll fight smarter.

After memorizing the form in Fire, he flips the scroll over to the front. His Earth characters could use some practice anyway.


	18. Sweep

**A/N: Been meaning to write this one forever, haha. It's one I was referencing in the fic summary.**

Sweep

Knees bent. Weight leaning more heavily on his back foot. Legs not too far apart. Less rooted than his firebending forms, he flows like shadow through the familiar motions. Shifting stances, balancing the arm movements to compensate for a single weapon rather than two—

If it weren't for Pao whistling from the kitchen, Zuko could've pretended it was a real training session. That he isn't practicing strikes in between sweeping a dirty floor with a broom that flakes off as many pieces of hay as it cleans up.

But he had stranger swordsmanship exercises with Piandao in the year Mother convinced the Master to secretly tutor him. Calligraphy, painting, rock gardening—if those could improve his skills, then improvising with a broom isn't just a distraction from the daily monotony. He needs any kind of practice he can get for the next time he faces the Avatar.

Because there _will _be a next time.

(And while he hopes it won't be while he's sweeping the teashop, luck has no regard for _hope_.)

"Oh, Lee, I didn't know you liked to dance!"

Pao's call disrupts his fluid footwork. The broom goes flying, scarring another dent in the already pockmarked wall.

"I'm not _dancing!"_

Pao, unlike Uncle, knows when to retreat from Zuko's outbursts. He disappears back into the kitchen while Zuko snatches the broom from the ground.

"It's an ancient and respected sword form." With the main room of the shop empty, he can afford the quiet mutter. Uncle would want him to play along with Pao's assumption—the less he knows about Zuko's skill set, the better—but Uncle wasn't scheduled to work this shift. He's supposed to be washing their one other set of clothes and picking up what little food they can afford... Which probably means he's _actually _out flirting or buying plants. Or both.

Slipping back into his adjusted sword form helps him push that particular worry aside. Keep breathing steadily; pull his shoulders back; turn; lean into a front stance; make smooth strokes of the bristles against the floor. Rhythm pulses through him, _(beat, beat),_ the tempo it took so long to find while carrying trays.

If the motions happen to look like a dance, it's only because Pao is too ignorant to know any better.


	19. Couple

**A/N: Lots of teashop content lately, hopefully I'll get around to writing some outside-of-work chapters soon. But this one was a lot of fun haha**

Couple

He is not going to firebend. He is not going to firebend, he _isn't. _He will not let flame daggers spout from his clenched fists. He will not let hot tendrils burst between his teeth. He will not even exhale a _whiff _of smoke, because he is _calm _and _in control _and he will _not_ blow his cover because of a couple stupid, _completely incopetent _peasants.

"So what comes in the jasmine tea, again?" The girl wears her dark hair in a ponytail that must be so tight it's cutting off her ability to use her brain.

"_Jasmine," _he grits out through clenched teeth. No fire, but he can feel the heat in the back of his throat. "Look, can you two just pick something? We close in seven minutes."

"Alright, alright, chill." The girl's boyfriend must be about Zuko's age, but their similarities end there. He is tan, brown-haired, with an easy smile that makes the girl giggle. "We'll just get two jasmines. And can you throw a bit of lemon in one for the lady?"

"Aww, Liiiing, you know just I like."

Maybe Zuko won't have to worry about breathing fire. He'll just throw up instead.

Uncle has the dregs of a pot of jasmine tea left. The cooing couple will just have to take it or leave it; they close in _five minutes _and he hasn't had time to sweep, that will take another seven minutes at least and he just wants to go _home—_

No. He refuses to call that dilapidated apartment _home. _He wants to go back to their… _temporary residence _and start working on a new plan to get to his _real _home.

But first, he has to get these two morons out of the tea shop.

"Thanks, man." Ling seems to think that smile will work on Zuko like it does on his girl.

Zuko destroys that assumption with a flat glare.

He never should have seated them. They are cuddling in the booth, practically ignoring their tea and _the shop is closed, _but after last time Pao said Zuko isn't allowed to throw customers out the door. Not that he'd _thrown _the cranky lady, he'd just… hurried her up a little.

(_Apparently_ that's bad for business. Not that Zuko cares. Customers inconsiderate enough to linger after closing time definitely aren't considerate enough to tip.)

So instead he sweeps the other half of the shop. If he whacks the broom against the table legs more loudly than necessary, at least he isn't firebending. The sharp _clacks _of each collision dull the gag-inducing chatter from the couple behind him. Until he sweeps his way closer and it becomes impossible to tune them out, until they stop talking _finally, _are they going to _leave—_

He hears the sucking noises, but doesn't realize what they mean until he turns around.

"That's it," he hisses under his breath and stalks towards the snogging couple.

He won't firebend. He steadies his breaths, in-two-three out-two-three, and reaches for the couple's still-full (but now cold) teacups. If they notice him in their entanglement, they don't show it.

Until Zuko "trips," and the two teenages end up with laps full of jasmine.

"Wh-what the—!"

"Sorry," Zuko says in a dull tone that says exactly the opposite. "You should move. I'll have to mop there now."

(He really will have to mop there. That's an extra five minutes at least. But it's worth it, to see the look on Ling's face.)

"You—" He pulls his fingers out of his date's hair (she yelps; her ponytail is ruined), and stands to face Zuko. "What's your problem?"

Zuko shrugs. "I guess I'm just clumsy."

"Come on Ling, let's just go," the girl whispers and tugs on his hand. She, at least, has the decency to look embarrassed.

"Whatever." Ling shakes his head and tries to glare—he doesn't have the face structure for it; his soft features turn the expression into more of a pout. "I don't care how good the tea is, we're never coming back here."

"How devastating." He manages to keep a straight face until Ling's girlfriend pulls him out the doors. They slam shut, and he immediately throws the lock into place.

"What was all that noise about, Nephew?" Uncle's head pokes through the kitchen window. "Did you make some new friends?"

A smirk pulls the corner of his mouth.

"Something like that."


	20. Bell

**A/N: Last chapter then we'll get some flower shop content I promise (I belatedly realized that since I wrote some of the chapters out of order, there's a line in that one that makes more sense if I post this first.)**

Bell

_Ring-ling._

Zuko's jaw tightens imperceptibly.

_Ring-ling._

His rag bites into the table and flakes off a section of varnish.

_Ring-ling._

He scrubs harder, not caring if he ruins the table. It's a better alternative than snapping at the child behind him.

_Ring-ling. Ring-ling. Ring-ling._

Is that boy's mother going to _do _something about him? He keeps swinging the front door back and forth, jostling the bell that hangs above it. Zuko could handle the noise—it's not _that _loud, especially compared to the arguments and wails he hears through the apartment's thin walls. It's his own reaction that angers him.

He's like a trained eelhound, ready to perform at the bell's command. _"Welcome to Pao's Tea Shop, how may I serve you today?" _He can't stand it, the fake politeness he's learned to infuse in his voice, a combination that feels like honey drizzled in a sharp black tea. He is not a _pet, _but by now he's used to greeting the patrons as they enter, anything to increase his likelihood of getting tips.

(Well—not _anything. _Faking politeness is much better than encouraging the girls that ogle him like _he's _on the menu.)

_Ring-ling._

He bites his cheek and ignores the bell. He's not going to make the same mistake he had when the kid first started ringing it. Greeting the empty entrance once had been embarrassing enough.

"Hi, is it too late to get a table?" A girl's familiar voice asks. Zuko suppresses the urge to groan. Of course this time it's a regular customer—the girl with the braids, who helped clean up that shattered teacup a weeks ago.

Well, at least she's irrationally patient with him.

"No. Welcome to Pao's Tea Shop…"


	21. Flowers

**A/N: Warning for Uncle's flirting****. I cringed as I was writing it.**

**Also, with Christmas coming up and me running a Danny Phantom event in January, weekly updates will probably not be possible for a while. I'll still try to update when I can though.**

Flowers

Zuko never thought he got his stealth from Uncle, but when Iroh vanishes into the crowded street during their grocery run, Zuko begins to consider it. Would it kill him to just stay _put, _hold the bag of rice, let Zuko hand over the coins, and go back to the apartment? Their shift ended too late to be running around back alleys and seedy antique shops. If he's going to be out this late, he should be searching for the Avatar, not his wandering Uncle.

Zuko isn't worried about him—it's _Uncle, _he can take care of himself, even if there was that time with the earthbenders and the hot springs, and the white jade bush…

"Uncle." His breath hisses between his teeth. "You better not being doing anything stupid…"

...Like buying flowers again.

Zuko sighs and pushes open the door beneath the painted Lotus sign. The tinkling bell makes him jump, ready to seat patrons at a hopefully-clean table. He shudders to shake off the involuntary reaction, and is grateful that most of their grocery shopping took place in the cheaper outdoor stalls.

The smell hits him a second later. Heady, overpowering, like the concentrated perfume some older women like to flaunt at the teashop.

Of course, he should've expected that from the jungle of blossoms. Tall flowers, tiny flowers, red and blue and white ones whose names he doesn't remember, no matter how many times Uncle's tried to teach him.

Though he pauses when herecognizes the curling crimson petals of the fire lilies. Where had someone in the Lower Ring gotten_ those? _The fire nation native flowers shouldn't be able to grow in Ba Sing Se's dry climate. But moisture clogs the air, the humidity sticking to his skin. It might've felt like home if not for the thick layer of grime already coating him, the too-light grocery bag clutched in his left arm, the exhaustion making his feet scuff against the dirt floor.

"Uncle?" He calls—quietly, as if something in the swaying stems will leap out to attack him. As if Jet or the Dai Li would hide in a stifling flower shop.

"Ah, that's my cue, Rena. It's been a pleasure as always."

Zuko steps around a bed of tall sunflowers in time to see Uncle wink at the silver-haired woman behind the counter. Great. Of course, it isn't enough for Uncle to be buying flowers; he has to _flirt _while he's at it.

"Just shut up and take the flowers, _Mushi." _The woman—Rena?—rolls her eyes as she shoves a chipped pot his way. Lavender blossoms, this time. At least those will smell better than the pungent roses that had cloyed inside their apartment until they finally decayed enough to excuse tossing them.

"The most beautiful flower in this shop is—"

"Do you want us to start charging you?"

Uncle chuckles. "Now Rena, you know I'm not that kind of gentleman."

"_Agni, _just—_get out," _Rena barks, and Zuko jumps at the Fire Nation invocation. "I don't know how Lorai puts up with you."

"With as much grace as yourself. You two truly do make a lovely couple. But if you ever desire a third party…"

Zuko is about to vomit into the flowerbed when Rena finally chases Uncle off. Maybe that was Uncle's plan all along—so Zuko won't follow him into the flower shop again. If so, it's working. Zuko stays five paces ahead of Uncle all the way back to the apartment. If he decides to wander off again, Zuko isn't going back for him.

As much as he wants to forget Uncle's inappropriate flirtations, two questions still tickle the back of his mind—

_Why _isn't Uncle paying for the flowers? And where else has their money been going?


	22. Love

**A/N: Merry Christmas, and now for a rare moment of Zuko maybe actually being happy (emphasis on the Maybe)**

Love

"I love you!"

Those words might as well have been a different language for all Zuko understood them—but while the four nations' scripts might be different, the spoken tongue had been unified under Avatar Yangchen over four hundred years ago.

It felt that long since someone had spoken those three words to him.

Mom said _I love you _in absence. In the space her arms used to fill, her body like a turtleduck's shell, shielding him from anger that cracked like lightning. She's not here to feel him growing taller with each hug, until she would be the one tucked beneath his chin, his arms the barrier to protect her. Back then he was too small, too weak, to keep her from wherever she's gone.

(If she loved him more, would have stayed?)

Azula said _I love you _in contradictions. In sparring—no, _humiliating; _it's been six years since his bending proved any match for hers. In the way she'd toss out a grain of advice, just waiting for him to peck—just waiting to twist him into the dirt, into a stepping stone to lift her higher. _Azula always lies _but then she _wouldn't, _just once, just enough for him to trust again—because she's his _sister _and he remembers her unbridled laughter mixing with the sound of the surf. When the only competition that mattered was finding the prettiest seashells, building the biggest sandcastles, leaping the tallest waves.

(If he'd just been _stronger_, could they go back?)

Father said _I love you _in fire. In punishment and pain and all the lessons he'd been too weak to learn. If he'd been smarter, stronger, maybe Father's love wouldn't hurt so much.

(The traitorous part of him thinks maybe this love is better from afar.)

Uncle says _I love you _in warm tea and steady advice, in full-belied laughter and _presence. _No matter where Zuko goes, Uncle is _there, _sticking tight as the barnacles crusted to the hull of the Wani. South Pole to North, prince to poverty, palace to forest to thin-walled apartment—Uncle never wavers.

(Words aren't needed, and would probably come out too convoluted, anyway.)

And the girl clinging to his leg, she says _I love you _in cluelessness. All he's done is add a spoonful of honey to her tea, but from the way she looks at him, he's sweetened her entire world.

It doesn't mean anything. She probably says it to every stranger she meets.

(But a warmth spreads in his chest that has nothing to do with fire.)


	23. Fight

**A/N: *shows up a month late with fireflakes* yo**

Fight

At Zuko's kick the table scrapes across the stone floor, and the jarring noise feels so _right. _The guards' swords are hot in his hands, but not enough to ignite, just thrumming with the fight that's been on the horizon for weeks now, like a storm that's finally decided to break.

Clang-clang-_crash. _ Why does Jet have to slice through the table? Zuko can't afford for that to come out of his paycheck—

_No._ Right now he doesn't have to think about money, or serving tea, or anything but keeping his head attached to his body. It brings a clarity that he's been aching for.

Jet should have tried to kill him sooner.

He couldn't take out his simmering anger, the pressure cooker of frustration and _hopelessness _and humiliation, on the tea shop's patrons. But Jet? Jet, with his cocky smirk and stupid grass hanging from between his teeth and *the arch of his furrowed eyebrows screaming hate?

Oh, Zuko's been _dying _to get a hit on that face.

For those few wonderful, satisfying moments, he imagines Jet as Zhao, as Azula, as the soldiers from Lee's village, as everyone who's stood between himself and home. The swords hum through the air, striking metal again and again, carving dents into their polished blades.

But even now, he can't release everything. He's still on the defensive. He won't strike Jet's dirt-smeared skin—where has the boy been _living, _has he had a shower since they rode the ferry over? Does he _have _somewhere to shower?

No, he's not going to feel sympathy for the idiot who's been trying to land him in prison.

That's why he pulls his strikes—because he doesn't intend on rotting in some Lower Ring jail cell. Not because he actually cares if he hurts Jet.

(He's not _weak, _he doesn't care for Earth Kingdom peasants—

—at least not this one.)

He wouldn't have had time to do any real damage, anyway. The fight is over practically before it's begun, with the Dai Li dragging Jet away behind bars.

(That could've been him. One stray spark, and it would've been.)

The warmth of the blades in his fists suddenly feels scalding. Adrenaline drains out of him like water through a cracked gutter—leaving behind nothing but soggy debris.

He finally got to fight someone. So what? Now he just has to go back to work and deal with more questions from strangers that he doesn't want to answer. For all Pao's talk of giving Uncle a raise, nothing is going to change. He'll wear tracks in the stone floor before he makes enough money to get out of this place.

He presses the hilts of the swords into their owner's hand and trudges back inside.


	24. Mushi

Mushi

He wishes Mushi were here.

Not "Mushi" Uncle, the _real _Mushi—well, Zuko knows Mushi wasn't _his _real name either; the pseudonym was the inspiration behind Uncle's new name, the first thing that had come to mind. The Wani's cook had a convoluted past that didn't lend well to ranks and titles and not getting thrown in prison for… whatever his crime had been. Uncle trusted him, and he made the best lemon komodo chicken, and that was all that mattered on a ship full of failures and outcasts.

(A ship that ended up at the bottom of the artic sea. One last grand failure to end them all.)

(He can only hope that Mushi and his crew didn't share the same fate, but he doubts he'll ever know.)

Regardless, Zuko shouldn't have taken Mushi for granted. Or, at the very least, should have paid an ounce of attention to how the man worked his magic. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't be trying to scrape crusted sauce off the bottom of their singular frying pan for the third time tonight.

"Maybe we should order take-out," Uncle says, not-so-subtly waving the smoke away from his nose.

"I can do it," Zuko snaps—both his voice, and the bamboo spatula in his hand. _Fantastic. _Just one more thing to fit into their budget, unless he can somehow glue the handle back together.

For now, he settles for gripping the flat end and scraping the rest of the burned gunk out the window.

"You don't have to, Nephew. We could make lentils, or rice—"

"I'm sick of rice!"

The tiny cookfire flares up, searing the bottom of the pan. His eyes widen as he rushes to shut the window—it traps the smoke in the room with them, but better that than someone outside seeing his uncontrolled firebending. Jet may be gone, but there's no telling who else might throw them to the Dai Li.

His hands shake as he sets the empty pan over the now-dying fire.

"Rice… sure," he mumbles, clenching and unclenching his fists.

He wishes Mushi were here. But Uncle's rice is better than nothing.


	25. Price

**A/N: Long time no update sorry**

Price

The price of ginseng increases by two coppers. To the regular patrons of Pao's Tea Shop, you would think the Fire Nation had invaded.

(They _did _invade, Zuko now knows. Changing supply routes to avoid the giant drill embedded in the wall is half the reason for the price jump. He only knows that from the whispers of Ki the delivery girl—who doesn't return the next week.)

The price of ginseng increases by two coppers, and suddenly, Zuko is the subject of as much vitriol as the Fire Nation.

(More, because the war may be taboo, but raging to his face is not.)

Two coppers. It's more than most regulars can afford. Tei Lin switches to a cheaper jasmine. Ling Hua disappears altogether.

(He hopes it's just because of the pricing, and not whatever happened to Ki.)

Uncle's raise, if Pao ever intended to actually deliver it, is delayed for days, a week, indefinitely.

(Two coppers more per day wouldn't have been worth it, anyway. Zuko doesn't intend to buy ginseng.)


	26. Burn

**A/N: Just wanted to say thanks for all the comments/reviews! I don't always respond to everyone but I do appreciate each one of them! (Also I'm better at responding to comments on AO3 than here on FFN, just fyi. My username is the same there as here.)**

Burn

"Careful," he mumbles to a little girl who only comes up to his knees before she scrambles on top of the wobbling chair. Far too small and young to be handling the breakable (and hot) teacup she reaches for.

"I'm _very _careful," she tells him seriously, in a voice that reminds him far too much of Azula, a lifetime ago, when her hands were capable of little more than sparks.

Those brave words don't stop the girl from crying out when she touches the hot porcelain. The cup wobbles and spills in her chubby hands, steaming liquid splattering across her palms. She isn't a firebender; her hands have no protection from the heat.

Her mother's rushed consolations are white noise. All Zuko can hear is the beginning of sniffling sobs.

His feet rush him back to the kitchen. Uncle asks something that is drowned out in the rushing tap, the splash of his wrung-out rag.

"Here," he says when he returns, kneeling in front of the girl. Her eyes are ringed in red, much like the irritated skin of her palms. It's nothing serious—nothing permanent—but it doesn't stop him from quickly shoving the damp cloth into her hands.

Her mouth forms a small _o _as she grips the cool rag.

"Does that feel better?"

A quick, shy nod. Nothing like the brash confidence from before.

(Burns can do that to a child.)

"Next time wait for it to cool first."

She clutches the rag tighter and nods again. Her mother thanks him with a bright smile—which is stupid, since it's his fault for putting the steaming cup within her reach.

When they leave, a thumb-sized silver coin glints from the sticky table. Most likely a mistake. Who would leave a tip like that after their child got injured?

(Unless the mother didn't care. Unless it was to teach her a lesson.)

He pockets the money. It'll let him afford to stock burn salve.


	27. Infant

**A/N: Fair warning, this one gets a bit darker than most. Trigger warnings for child neglect/abuse and drug abuse. Unfortunately inspired by a true story of someone I know, though this version is much more extreme. This is one of my favorite chapters I've written for this fic though so if that doesn't turn you off I hope you enjoy!**

Infant

Uncle is always telling him to think before he acts. Of all the times he's forgotten that advice, this might be the worst. Worse than trying to break through a Fire Nation blockade. Worse than challenging a waterbender in her element under the full moon. Worse than choosing to part ways with Uncle over his stubborn pride.

The infant howls and howls in his arms, no matter how he tries to rock her. She's going to attract the guards, or the Dai Li, or _someone _who's going to arrest him for kidnapping. Even if they should be more worried about the strung-out parents, who had succumbed so deeply to their stoneweed smoke that they had barely blinked at the masked figure slipping through their window.

And then slipping out, with their screaming child in his arms.

He paces back and forth in the cramped space, cradling the baby like she'll shatter at any moment, because she will and she _is _with all that crying and he _doesn't know how to hold a child, _he was too young when Azula was born and he's going to screw up but he couldn't just _leave _her there, the toxic smoke could've killed her—

"Where _are _you, Uncle?" He hisses, knowing his voice won't carry over the baby's howls. Uncle had been snoring soundly when Zuko snuck out, but now his mattress is empty, his blanket strewn across the floor. He'd nearly tripped over it in his first round of pacing.

Uncle better just be using the washroom. If something had happened to him in the few minutes Zuko had been gone—

"Nephew!"

His shoulders sag in relief when Uncle throws open the door. His red-rimmed eyes barely register; he's _here _and he's had a child before—

"Uncle, I—help," he croaks out. The infant continues to scream, now even closer to his bad ear, her fingers gripping the gnarled cartilage. At least his hearing on that side is already dulled.

"Nephew, why in Agni's name—!"

"Shh!" He hisses, eyes darting to the window, though he has much worse problems than someone overhearing the Fire Nation curse.

"_Where were you? _Why do you have a _child?"_

Even though Uncle's voice is barely audible over the screams, it pierces right through him. He can count on one hand the number of times Uncle has been angry with him. Disappointed, much more often, but rarely angry. But with the way Uncle's shoulders shake now, his clenched fists—oh Agni, he's not going to bend at him, this is _Uncle, _not Father, he won't surely he won't—

"I thought the Dai Li had gotten you again."

Zuko swallows as Uncle steps towards him, hands hovering like he wants to wrap him in a hug—only there's still a crying child between them.

"I'm fine, Uncle. It was just—the neighbors' kid wouldn't stop crying, and I couldn't sleep and—look at her, Uncle."

For the first time since Zuko scooped up the wailing child, he forces himself to assess her. He knows little about infants, but he's sure her skin shouldn't be sunken around sharp ribs. It's a miracle her lungs work so well, with how much smoke she must have breathed in.

Uncles expression darkens as he examines the infant, then softens as he smooths his hand over her thin brown hair.

"I see. But you cannot just take someone's child, even if you are concerned for her wellbeing."

"She's _sick, _Uncle! Her parents are high right now and they're _killing her _and they don't _care!"_

"Shh, shh."

Zuko doesn't know if Uncle is trying to console him or the child, but he eases her out of Zuko's arms, untangles her fingers from his ear. As Uncle rocks her slowly, her wails quiet to cries, then silent shudders.

"_Leaves from the vine, falling so slow, like fragile tiny shells, drifting in the foam…"_

Uncle finishes the lullaby, and the little soldier girl's eyes slip closed. Zuko holds in his sigh of relief as he watches her bare chest rise and fall steadily. A thin, soiled cloth wrapped loosely between her legs is her only clothing.

They can't take her back. They _can't._

A gentle hand rests on his shoulder. "Fight smarter, Zuko. We do not have the resources to care for a child."

He can work harder, earn more tips, _anything, _doesn't Uncle get it? She's a _baby. _A baby who will _die _if they take her back and he doesn't care how much she screams, parents can't just _abandon their child _it's not _fair—_

"Zuko. Breathe." The hand squeezes.

Zuko breathes. Those faint whimpers aren't coming from the baby.

"_We _cannot take care of a child. But I know people who can."

The next morning, there is no screaming child in his room. After the guards bang down the neighbors' door, there is no screaming child there, either.

He doesn't sleep as well in the silence as he'd thought.


	28. Shrine

**A/N: 2 angst chapters back to back? Sorry its all I got**

Shrine

The shrine is too beautiful for the grimy alleyway. It's still nothing like the shrines at the Fire Palace, of course; Father would never allow the dull copper statue, even if the metal dragon's scales and fur were obviously sculpted with care. With the two candles flickering on either side, Zuko can almost pretend it's the pure gold he once took for granted.

Not that the material matters. A shrine is just a statue, no matter how beautiful or ugly, cheap or expensive. Agni didn't listen to him back home any more than he has in the Earth Kingdom. He used to mutter prayer after prayer, kneeling beneath the palace shrine like he did before his Father, begging for mercy that never came.

If the Fire Lord is Agni's chosen, then the great spirit is just as unforgiving.

So Zuko has no reason to keep gawking at the candlelit corner of the alley. The dragon-shaped shrine must have been brought by the Fire Nation refugees, those of his people who've been scattered through no fault of their own. Not like Zuko, who should've fought harder, should've been stronger.

"I'm sorry," he still mumbles automatically. The prayer has been ingrained in him since Mother first taught him to plead to the spirits. "I should have done more for our… for your people."

The candles around the statue flicker, casting brassy reflections across the stone. It doesn't mean anything. His bending is just out of control, erratic from his lack of meditation.

"I know I no longer deserve your help, if I ever did, but…" He swallows, eyes screwing shut. "End this war. For your people who still need you."

He doesn't know what kind of ending he wishes for. Father won't have mercy on Ba Sing Se, even if some of his people are trapped within his walls.

Is he a traitor if he hopes Father never comes?

He bows quickly before striding out of the alleyway. The shrine may have escaped the Dai Li's notice, or it might be too insignificant for them to care, but Zuko doesn't want to find out.

(The next week, the golden statue is a molten puddle. Zuko accepts the warning for what it is, and hopes that the other Fire Nation refugees will too.)

(It's too high a price for a few unanswered prayers.)


	29. Play

**A/N: Needed something not too angsty for once lol**

Play

"That was worse than the Ember Island Players!" Zuko shouts as they shuffle out of the one-room theatre.

Uncle shushes him, and Zuko's face heats with embarrassment rather than fire. Ember Island is in the heart of the Fire Nation. He can't give away their identities just because he's offended at a _play _of all things. What does he expect? Admission was only two punched coppers. Still, the tale of Oma and Shu was even more melodramatic than _Love Amongst the Dragons, _and it lacked the special effects that made the Ember Island Players bearable.

It was a stupid waste of an evening. He'd only liked the theatre because of Mom, anyway.

"Surely it wasn't _all _bad." Uncle smiles. "You did seem to enjoy Shu's love confession."

...He can appreciate a heartfelt delivery, that's all. But it isn't like that matters, since Oma and Shu both ended up dead at the end, anyway.

Zuko isn't a fan of tragedies. He can see plenty of those without going to the theatre.

They walk home down the lantern-lit street, Zuko ranting about the play's flaws, Uncle letting out bursts of full-bellied laughter. Somehow the sound seeps into him, pushing back against the emptiness that had threatened to overwhelm him this week. Complaining about something as trivial as a play feels almost _relaxing _compared to their real problems.

If that's the point of the terrible play, maybe it was worth the two coppers after all.


	30. Test

Test

"Good morning mister Lee, how are you doing today?"

The woman's words fizzle in and out of Zuko's half-asleep brain. "Good morning" isn't a type of tea. What is she asking? Her blue eyes crinkle around the corners as she smiles. A trick question?

"I—uh—would you like to see our menu?" He asks.

She raises an eyebrow, and pointedly looks down at the menu lying in front of her. Oh.

"My, my. Mushi told me you were bright, but just a touch awkward. You'll want to work on that."

His hands clench fistfuls of his apron. It's not like most customers care enough to ask how he's doing. Why pretend to care, only to insult him immediately afterwards?

Who is this woman, anyway? Blue eyes, dark tan skin—she could've been related to the waterbender and her boomerang-wielding brother. But they're in the heart of the Earth Kingdom; surely Water Tribe refugees haven't made it here.

"Wait—you know Uncle?" He only now processes what she said. "I'll go get him. He can talk to you."

Zuko has no desire to get roped into Uncle's love life, if that's what this is about. Though insulting Zuko isn't usually a tactic that old ladies take if they're trying to get on Uncle's good side.

"Actually, I'm here for you." She laces her fingers over the menu. Her blue eyes are piercing, unnatural.

Zuko definitely liked old ladies better when their attentions were focused on Uncle.

"What is it that you want out of life? Surely you don't intend to work in this teashop forever."

His heart thuds against his ribs. All the things he wants—the Avatar, his honor, his father's love—are a stone in the pit of his stomach. A rebellious part of him wants to tell her, half so she'll leave him alone, half to prove to himself that he _does _have things he still wants.

He _won't _work in this teashop forever.

But sharing his life story isn't part of the script, and will more likely get him killed than anything. So he falls back on the words that hours of word have drilled into him.

"Ginseng is our specialty," he recites automatically. "The sweet earthy flavor is complimented by a hint of bitterness. We also offer several varieties of white and green tea—"

The woman cuts with a sigh. "No thank you, dear. Tell Mushi that Lorai stopped by. Perhaps we can arrange to meet another time, when you can think beyond the confines of tea."

She pushes in her chair and swishes through the door, the bell tinkling hollowly behind her.

Zuko has the familiar realization that he's just failed a test. But as usual, he has no idea how or why.

**A/N: Much like "Flowers," this one will make more sense later.**


	31. Nightmares III: Lu Ten

31 — Nightmares III: Lu Ten

The worst nightmares aren't his own.

It's the silence that wakes him first. No shouting, no snoring, no crying, not even wind whistling through the cracks in the window.

That's weird. Uncle's snores never stop while he's asleep. They could power the train that looms next to the apartment building, eliminating the need for earthbending power. Or they could stick him in a farmer's field and let him scare away all the crows. You could even set a clock by the steadiness of them.

Except Uncle isn't snoring now. He lies on the futon next to Zuko's, curled up and looking scarily small.

"Uncle?" Zuko bolts upright. Is Uncle hurt? Sick? Did he drink poisonous tea again?

No. Uncle may be scatterbrained at times, but he doesn't ever break. Zuko has to be overreacting.

But if something _did _happen to Uncle, leaving him alone in this prison of a city…

"No, please…" The words leak out of Uncle's mouth. "Not him. Not Lu…"

Lu. Lu Ten. Zuko hasn't thought about his cousin in too long—he's gone, and no amount of crying ever brought him back.

But he died trying to take this city. How has Zuko never thought of it before?

"Uncle!" He shakes him roughly, and a choked sound replaces those terrifying whimpers.

"Lu Ten?" For a moment, he looks so _happy. _Then his eyes finally adjust in the darkness. "Zuko? What are you…"

"Your nightmare woke me up," he huffs.

Uncle didn't even think to use his fake name. Not that it matters in the middle of the night now that Jet is gone, but it only proves how shaken he must be. Apparently time hasn't healed the pain of losing his only son.

(Would Ozai ever awake in the middle of the night, crying out Zuko's name? Missing the son he'd burned and banished?)

(Zuko can't picture it.)

"Ah." Uncle's voice is soft, pensive. "I will try to sleep more quietly then."

His deafening snores start up within minutes.

Zuko can finally sleep again.


	32. Hair

**A/N: This was a request by sorcerousfang. You may not even remember sending it in at this point, but the prompt was "Hair." Also, for the purposes of this fic, The Tales of Ba Sing Se were not necessarily in chronological order (meaning: we'll still see the Tale of Uncle later).**

Hair

Zuko grumbles as Uncle slathers his hair down against his scalp. Where did he even get this hair product? That weird flower shop? It smells too strong, but maybe girls like that. Uncle would know better than him.

Not that it matters what girls like. He isn't trying to impress Jin, not really. It's just… polite, right? He knows he needs to be more polite. He can't afford to scare off a regular customer, even if he'd been sure she was a spy. Why else would she want to go on a date with him?

Why _does _she want to go on a date with him?

"Hold still, nephew," Uncle says. Zuko can see the corners of Uncle's lips twitch in the cracked bathroom mirror. Does he think it looks funny? Zuko's head hasn't looked so flat since he wore it shaved, with the phoenix tail billowing from the center.

What would Jin have thought of a hairstyle like _that? _It doesn't matter. He won't wear one again until he captures the Avatar. If then.

He tries to stop squirming. It's hard when he has to squat so Uncle can reach the top of his head. When had Uncle gotten so short?

"Looking good, Lee!" Senna calls, his towel over his shoulder as he heads towards the shower.

Zuko scowls at the chuckling older man before Uncle forces his head back to the mirror. His gaze still dodges the left side of his face, like oil skimming the surface of water. It helps that his left is his blinder side, anyway.

"See? Even our neighbors agree. You'll sweep miss Jin off her feet tonight!"

The only sweeping Zuko is good for anymore is sweeping the teashop floor. But somehow, he still feels a flicker of excitement. It's a night away from the teashop. A night away from his Uncle, with someone his own age. He hasn't had that since… ever, actually.

Maybe this won't be so bad.


	33. Nice

Nice

"How was your night, Prince Zuko?"

The slam of the sliding door cuts off Uncle's voice.

Why is he so _stupid? _Kissing a girl he barely knows? Sure, she was nice, and her lips were soft and he was curious—but that was no excuse for him to try anything.

He's not Lee, the refugee from the tea shop. He's Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation. He has to remember that. He can't stay here, only using his bending to light candles for disappointed girls.

(Come to think of it, that might have been a trap all along. _Stupid!_)

He'll know whether or not he's overreacting when the Dai Li show up in their doorway. He can't ask Uncle to flee again, not when he's so happy brewing tea and setting fresh flowers in the windowsill every week.

It had been easy to pretend that he was safe when Jin pulled him by the hands and led him to a dim fountain. Easy to give in to the temptation to firebend. Easy to blend the half of him that had sparks in his soul with the half that was an insignificant refugee, an outcast.

For a moment, he'd been both. That scares him more than anything.

He's not Lee the refugee. He never joined the circus. He never learned to juggle. And he's never going to happy living in the bowels of Ba Sing Se. He was born for more than this—and even if he wasn't, even if Father slices him from the family tree forever, he still can't be happy here, with its dry heat and flat plains.

He misses the ocean, the breeze, the flowers that grow in the damp, living soil—not the ones snipped off and imprisoned in a dusty vase.

If he stays here, he'll wither away just as surely.

But in spite of everything, he doesn't feel so dried out right now. Maybe it's because the brief display of firebending rekindled his chi in a way that meditation alone can't. It helps him breathe easier, feel less like a shaken bottle of wine, ready to burst.

Even if it was stupid, he can't bring himself to regret it.

He slides the door open a crack and finally answers Uncle.

"It was nice."


	34. Spy

Spy

"You're not the only one, you know."

It's the first thing Jin says to him. He doesn't have to ask her what tea she wants; he already holds the cup of sweetened jasmine in his hand.

He didn't expect her to come back, though he should have. No one in the Lower Ring would pass up the chance to use a coupon. Even if it means she has to smile politely at the boy who'd kissed her and run.

...She doesn't _have _to smile.

"Not the only what?" He asks, not returning the expression. She could still be a spy. How long would she lie in wait before alerting the Dai Li?

"You know."

Her hands cover his as she accepts the cup. Linger for far too long. Trying to see if they'll catch flame again?

"You peeked." He glares, but she still smiles over her cup.

"You're cute, Lee, but you're a terrible liar. That's why I like you."

Like. Not _liked. _She… likes him?

He's not sure if the turning in his stomach is excitement, or the start of an illness.

"But I…"

"_It's complicated," _she imitates his rough voice, but can't copy his glare. Her eyes aren't amber enough. "I know. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night."

"It wasn't you." She'd been nothing but friendly, and kind, and—well, _confusing. _But that's Zuko's fault, for being too slow to keep up.

At least she's not likely to be a spy. A spy wouldn't tell him that she knew what she knew, would she?

_Confusing._

"I'm just… not who you think I am," he mumbles. "I don't want to hurt you."

If she's not a spy, then she deserves better than someone like him. Maybe someone who can actually teach her to juggle.

She takes a slow sip from her cup. Behind him, a group of customers enters, but he doesn't turn to look. For once, Pao is inside rather than haggling with suppliers out back. Let him take care of them.

"You can be whoever you want in Ba Sing Se. That's what my Dad said before we moved here, anyway." She sighs, her breath mixing with the white steam from her tea. "I'd like to go to the University and study biology, but our family doesn't have enough money. So for now I like to watch the pygmy pumas. The other day the litter I was watching adopted a flying lemur. Pretty crazy, huh?"

Flying lemur? He perks up. Is the Avatar in the city? Or is this a trap, a false lead to see what he'll do?

"Why are you telling me this?"

She swirls her tea in its cup without taking her eyes from his. They're brighter than he remembers; green rings the edges of her pupils before bleeding into brown.

"Because we're friends, aren't we?"

"We just went out once. That doesn't make us anything." And it doesn't explain why she's spilling her life story to him. Unless it _is_ some kind of trap… or unless she actually does like him.

For once, he wishes Azula were here. She could always tell when people were lying.

(Except, if Azula _were _here, he wouldn't need to worry about Jin being a spy. He'd already be dead.)

"Well, then… _can _we be friends?" Her voice is hopeful.

Would a spy sound that convincing? Probably. But if Zuko spends every second thinking he's being watched, he'll end up crazier than that old king he once met in Omashu.

"Sure, I guess." He shrugs. He was almost friends with Jet. Jin at least _seems _less likely to turn around and try to kill him.

She smiles, but before she can say anything more, Pao yells for Zuko to fetch more white tea. Honestly, he's surprised Pao let him rest for this long.

"Sorry. Duty calls."

She laughs. It's not at him, though, he's pretty sure. It doesn't sound like Azula's laughs, anyway.

"I understand. See you around, Lee."

(And she does. And the Dai Lee don't.)


	35. Training

**A/N: Just wanted to say thanks for all the reviews! I'm better at replying to comments on AO3 if you want to find this fic there; it's under the same username (Taliax).**

Training

It's just hot leaf juice. It can't be _that _hard.

But there's so many _kinds _of leaves spread out in little jars across the counter, and they all look more or less the same, and Uncle is moving much more quickly than Zuko realized he could. Dropping a pinch here, sniffing a pot there. Adding coal to the stove and pumping water from the sink.

There's so much to _do _here. And Zuko thought Uncle had the easy job.

"I've put this off long enough. It's time you returned to your training."

Returned? But Zuko's never learned to make tea in the first place.

Still, Uncle adjusts the apron around Zuko's neck and pushes him in front of the stove, where five pots are in various stages of heating. One looks about ready to boil over. Isn't that supposed to be bad for tea?

"You will be working the stove. I'll handle the brewing for now."

Zuko's more than fine with that. Heating water is something he can do.

"The temperature must remain steady, or the water will heat at irregular intervals. Then our customers will not receive their tea on time." Uncle says this as if announcing a grave tragedy. "Watch the clock and your breathing. They will be your greatest tools."

"My breathing?" Zuko's eyes flicker to the fire licking below the stove. "Do you really want me to…?"

Uncle nods just once. "You will never achieve balance without learning the proper teamaking technique."

It's a proverb. Or something like that. But for once, Zuko knows exactly what he means.

He steps near the fire, closes his eyes, and breathes.


	36. Light

**A/N: This is a direct continuation of the previous chapter :)**

Light

The light is inside him.

He can't see it, but he doesn't need to. Each flicker is an extension of himself, glowing upon the coals. Filling him with warmth and energy and life.

When was the last time he stood next to a fire that was larger than a candle? A fire that actually felt _alive? _

"Not too much, now," Uncle murmurs, cutting through the surge of emotion. "Balance."

Balance. Between beauty and danger. Life and death. That's what being a firebender is, isn't it? Holding the power of destruction, but only letting it destroy the weakness inside you.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Stop stoking the flames. He isn't Zhao; he knows that control isn't a weakness, but a strength. Just like respect, and honor.

"Very good, Lee."

The name catches him like a fist in the gut. He may be firebending—technically—but he isn't a firebender here. The teashop isn't a place he'll find respect _or_ honor.

Zuko (_Zuko, _not Lee) switches the pots, cool water replacing steaming hot. Uncle pours the warm water into teapots with carefully measured leaves. Everything precise and orderly in the way fire so often isn't.

No, he doesn't belong here, any more than his golden eyes belong chained to an Earth Kingdom name.

But that won't stop him from breathing in, breathing out, and letting the flames calm him.


	37. Son

Son

"_Little soldier boy, come marching home… Brave soldier boy, comes marching home."_

Uncle's shoulders shake. His back is to Zuko, but he can hear the tremor in his soft, mournful song.

Part of him wants to go back down the hill, pretend he'd never stumbled upon this private moment. Uncle didn't invite him. Zuko only wanted to find out where he was going, maybe learn what Uncle did with so much of their money.

Unless the incense sending up trails of smoke cost around a hundred silvers, this isn't it.

Before he can decide whether to stay or go, a leaf crunches under his foot.

Uncle turns, panic showing beneath the streams of tears. But then his stance relaxes.

"Zuko." He lets out a slow breath. "You should know better than to sneak up on an old man."

Zuko. Not Lee. Today is not a day for pretending.

He steps forward, then folds his legs beneath him.

"I'm sorry."

His eyes fix on the portrait in front of them. If he strains just a little, he can pull that face from his memories. Smiling. Laughing. Whispering sword tips, slipping an extra pouch of fireflakes to him after dinner.

Everything went wrong the day Lu Ten died. For him, but even more for Uncle. No matter what Uncle says, Zuko can't replace his son.

But he can be here anyway.

Zuko folds his uncle in his arms.

"I love you, Uncle," he mumbles so quietly, it might have been lost on the breeze.

Uncle's voice still shakes, and the tears don't dry. But when he looks up, he's smiling.

"I love you too, my son."


End file.
